My mom’s cat Fred gave us quite a scare a couple weeks ago. My stepfather has entered the wandering phase of Alzheimer’s, and apparently in the middle of the night he opened the front door and managed to shut both Fred and Cookie in between that and the screen door. (Yes, new locks have since been installed...)

As you might expect, Fred was not amused, said nuts to you fella, tore a hole in the screen door and left. Cookie did hop through the hole Fred made (this is a guess; we’re blaming him because he was apparently the most motivated!), but she hung out on the porch until Mom discovered the situation in the morning. Cookie is still a very petite kiddo, even though at two years old she’s theoretically full-grown; not being quite so squeezed, plus her easygoing nature, may account for her equanimity in the face of such an insult. But Fred has been known to make himself scarce inside the house for hours when, say, Kevin and I would come in the door with suitcases (this was early in Fred’s and our relationship; he’s completely cool with us now.) So this quite understandable disappearing act was not exactly out of character.

Mom didn’t let me know about this until Fred had been gone for a day and a half, and she was just at her wits’ end. She had gone all over the neighborhood talking to people and putting up flyers. The neighborhood children, trying to be helpful, had run around all over the place calling him (which was just about as likely to bring him out of hiding as, say, a 747 landing on their street.)

After we got off the phone, I tried to think of ways I could help. I wondered if any pet detectives worked in the area. A Google search turned up the website of Carl Washington, Pet Detective, plus a number of highly complimentary articles about him from other sources, including one that mentioned his successful search for a dog in Chattanooga.

I will admit, I was still a bit skeptical—then I saw that one of the recommendations was by none other than noted cat expert Carole Wilbourn. Ms. Wilbourn’s book Cats Prefer It This Way has been a favorite of mine for years.

So, at 10:30 at night, I called Mr. Washington. He was on his way to Miami for a search, but said if necessary he’d head to Chattanooga afterward.  Meantime, he suggested his very reasonably-priced service where he examines aerial photos, etc. and draws up a specific search plan for the owner to follow, based on his years of experience with the behavior of lost pets. Sounded good to me, so I sent the money via Western Union the next day, as requested, so he could pick it up where he was.

Immediately, even before he had a chance to prepare the custom map, he sent me the generic verbiage that goes along with it, telling what the various marks mean, and what to do at those locations. I immediately forwarded it to Mom, and the instructions were clear enough that she could implement some of the ideas even before she got the map itself. Lo and behold, Fred was enticed home that evening as a direct result of one of the suggestions. Mr. Washington, you have gained several more fans, and you have our heartfelt gratitude.

Taz, Suzie-Q and Mickie are home now, and tonight I flew solo on Taz’s diabetes care for the first time. Seems to have gone just fine. Now admittedly, the boy loves him some chow, but it’s still amazing to me that he doesn’t seem to even notice the tiny little needle stick while he’s face down in his supper. The needle is very small—nothing like the one we used to give our old girl Lyric subcutaneous saline infusions in her later years.

As previously blogged, Taz isn’t stabilized yet. His blood sugar has been up and down some (although the most recent reading at the vet in Chattanooga, taken Monday morning, was the best yet.) The vet there feels that some of it might be due to the stress of being away from home, and within sniffing distance of the Chattanooga feline crew, whom Taz has never encountered before. He certainly does seem more relaxed now that we’re home, so who knows.

What I am more worried about is his hind legs. The symptom that really alarmed me when I first realized he wasn’t well was that his hind legs seemed wobbly and weak. There is a syndrome seen in diabetic cats where they walk “flat-footed” due to nerve damage, but the vet says he doesn’t think that’s what’s going on here, because Taz’s diabetes was caught early. He suspects arthritis, and I sure hope he’s right, because some Cosequin (and weight loss) might help a lot then.

Of course, I had to go looking around on the Internet, and found all kinds of worse things it could be, too.  Taz will see our vet here in Georgia for the first time Thursday AM, and we’ll see what they think it is. All good thoughts and prayers are appreciated.

Cici and babies shortly after Mom and Cliff brought them home. The kittens were about two weeks old. Add a soundtrack of loud purring times five, and you’ve got the idea.

The kitten in back is Cookie; the tiny one on the right is Cream. Those are the girls. As for the boys, one of them is Caramel and the other is Cashew, but who’s who in the picture is anyone’s guess.

Cream was so bereft while the string was being tied back together, she sat beneath the empty doorknob and meowed.

(from left: Mickie, Cashew, Cream)

Caramel settles himself into a strange sleeping position.

The day after Christmas, Mom was reading the newspaper, minding her own business, with Cici on her lap. Cici is the Manx-mix momcat with a four-pack of kittens that Mom and Cliff rescued. When she was still in momcat mode, Cici was a little standoffish, but ever since she was spayed she has become a major lovebug and lap fungus.

Anyway, so Cici is stretched out on Mom’s lap. One of the kittens, Cookie I believe, comes along and catches a glimpse of her mom’s belly. Perhaps in a fit of Christmas nostalgia, Cookie decides it’s time for some mom milk, so she heads in to try and suckle. The other three (Cream, Caramel, Cashew—we can only tell them apart by their tails/lack thereof and their collars) think that’s a wonderful idea, and they converge on the site. These are 14-week-old kittens, and have grown quite a bit since their last gathering at the milk bar, so they’re having a tough time getting themselves all arranged. Meanwhile, Cici, who weaned these critters weeks ago, is having none of this, but doesn’t want to leave her happy lap spot, so she starts to squirm around.  Somewhere underneath this feline circus is Mom.

Just try to figure some people out.

My mother and stepfather were married in 1987. Mom and I had two cats then, Lyric and Furrari, who had moved cross-country with us the year before. After the wedding, we moved into Cliff’s house.  Suddenly, he said he was allergic to the cats, and so they had to go. It got a little ugly. Eventually, a compromise was reached, and the cats were made to live in the basement for a couple of years until I was out on my own and could afford a cat-friendly apartment.

Fast-forward to 2003. Mom and Cliff have been without pets the whole time, but now they decide to get a couple of cats. (Turns out Mom’s the one who tests out as allergic, but it doesn’t bother her a bit.) So Fred and Julie come home with them from a local adopt-a-thon. Fred is a black longhair with bright golden eyes, and Julie is a lovely gray tabby. Complications arose in that Fred turned out to be diabetic. Mom struggled for weeks to get him regulated—at one point he was getting something like 10 or 12 units of insulin twice a day. But her efforts (and lots of prayer) were rewarded, and Fred’s diabetes actually went into remission after several months of excellent blood sugar. (Now they just maintain him on special diabetes food.) So, two happy, healthy and adored cats, and all is well.

Then, a couple months later, Cliff decides he wants a couple of kittens too. Enter Bing and Bob, two orange tabby brothers who are best buddies. Fred loves them too, and often pins them down with one big furry foot so he can bathe them, a performance that comes to be known as a “Squash-and-Wash”.

Julie, on the other hand, tends to shy away from the rambunctious little boys, and keeps to herself in the back of the house. Cliff worries and worries (If Fred is Mom’s special baby, Julie is Cliff’s).  He decides she needs her own girl kitten friend, so little Gigi joins the family. Gigi was in the animal shelter, and needed quite a bit of TLC herself, but once again Mom’s special brand of nurturing saves the day, and Gigi is now a sleek young adult cat who is the group ringleader for whatever mischief takes place.  So, five happy, healthy and adored cats, and all is well.

But Cliff, for some reason, is fascinated by the idea of a Manx cat. A friend tells them about a young Manx mix stray who has a litter, and they go see about maybe one more kitten. There are four: one bunny-tail like his mom, two no-tails and one full-tailed kitten. The emaciated mother and babies are living outside in a rather dangerous environment, and Mom and Cliff just cannot stand it so they bring the whole bunch home. Again, some desperately-needed TLC is provided, and the lovely champagne-colored Cici and her matching babies (Cashew, Cream, Caramel and Cookie) find their happily-ever-after as well.

Mom retired a couple of years ago, and taking care of the cats is a new full-time job for her, but she finds it very rewarding. Three Litter Robots (the best automated cat box ever made, in my opinion!) plus regular boxes for the young’uns, ten dishes washed daily, morning and evening feedings, vet visits galore… I’m beginning to think she should apply for tax-exempt status.  Mom claims she inherited the tender-heart-and-head-to-match from me. All I know is, there are ten meticulously cared for, frisky, furry bundles of joy up there. Every rescue is a little miracle.